


The scent of chamomile

by maugrim



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Caring, Caring!Jaskier, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Geraskier Week 2020, Hurt!Geralt, Kikimora - Freeform, M/M, Reconciliation, a bit jealousy, angst with happy ending, bamf!Jaskier, not a very explicit heterosexual sex scene (I hope), pining!geralt, post dragon hunt, the obligatory bathtub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:08:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22734607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maugrim/pseuds/maugrim
Summary: Geralt knows he has to apologize to Jaskier, it just takes some time.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s), Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 196





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to the Geraskier 2020 for
> 
> day 2 - monster hunt (chapter 1 off-screen and chapter 2)  
> day 3 - protection (chapter 2)  
> day 4 - hurt/comfort (chapter 2 and chapter 3)
> 
> I hope this works out!

Geralt decided he definitely needed more ale if he wanted to survive the night. It seemed like the only logical solution - that or taking Roach and camp outside of the village, which, while better for his coin pouch, was the opposite of why he had originally came for. It wasn’t that he had suddenly come to like human company, far from it really, but the noise around him was better than silence. He had taken out a noonwaith today that had been haunting the surrounding fields, followed by a dip into a cold pond on the way back to wash the blood off, before collecting his money and spending it on a drink.

He had tried to keep himself busy these past few months, travelling from town to town, taking contracts. Nothing out of the usual, really. For the most part he had let Roach take the lead and, well, maybe he had taken more contracts than usual, it helped keeping him occupied. The downside of the time travelling between one contract from one village to the next was that it gave him too much time alone with his thoughts and it seemed to get more and more of a problem.  
It shouldn’t bother him, travelling alone. It had never happened to him before that he had felt the need to fill the void with chatter and music and yet here he was, willingly seeking out the company of people. The very same whose results of past mistakes he killed day for day. And also, there was no denying that the ale in this tavern was watery and the music unmelodic at best. Probably it was time to try it with different kind of company.

There were a few claps applause to be heard that got nearly drowned out by drunken cheers. Geralt stood, picking up his trinket. The bitter taste washed over his tongue when the first sounds of an all too familiar tune travelled through the room. He froze, the trinket still held against his lips. It was familiar, very familiar - and far too familiar that it was comforting. His chest felt suddenly uncomfortably tight. He forced himself to take a deep breath and listened carefully.

It wasn’t him. There were a few notes that were out of tune, something that would have never happened, if it had been him, perfectionist that the fool was when it came to his songs. Geralt himself might not be an expert of music, far from it, but he had spent enough time around a certain bard, that he noticed a difference. Also, this imitator’s voice was all wrong, scratchy and loosened from too much to drink. It was one of the more popular songs about Geralt and it brought back memories that he rather not think about now. It really was a real pain, that he didn’t forget his mistakes, but – or maybe therefore – it didn’t make things any easier. 

Perhaps a bit too forceful he put the trinket back, ale splashing over his hands but he didn’t care. He needed to leave, right now. He let a coin drop to the table, before making his way to the door.  
“Oi, Witcher!”, the bard shouted after him, when he had only made it halfway through the room. “What do you think of my performance?”  
_Tell me! How is my singing!  
Like ordering a pie and finding out it has no filling. _The memory pierced him like a thin dagger through his ribs. Only this time his comment wouldn’t be just insomnia induced grumpiness.  
He bared his teeth and shot the man a dark look.  
“It’s like the death shriek of a banshee - and believe me, I have heard enough of these sounds to last a life time. Also, stealing someone else’s song and pretending they are your own, isn’t very honourable I would think.” Not that humans weren’t the worst kind of monster anyway.  
The bard turned pale and took a step backwards, clutching his lute protectively in front of his body as if he planned to use it as a shield, in case the Witcher decided to come any nearer to him.  
Geralt heard the restless, nervous muttering in the crowd and turned his gaze away. “I was about to leave anyway.”

The night was cool against his heated skin, as he stepped out of the tavern. Adrenaline was pumping through his body. He should have just ignored it. He had years of experience ignoring bards, well one specific bard. But this had been the wrong timing and had gotten under his skin.  
Geralt growled in frustration, angry at himself. He really needed a distraction. There had been a whorehouse he had noted when coming into the town, maybe he could get the thoughts out of system another way.

An elderly woman opened him, when he knocked at the side of the backdoor of the brothel. She took only a short look at him, her eyes lingering for a moment at the medallion on his chest, before she opened the door wider to let him in. The smell of heavy perfume and body fluids was in the air.  
The woman gave him a wrinkly smile. “Please come in, master Witcher.”

She turned on her heels and led him down a dark corridor. Noises permeated through closed doors, moans differing in various heights and variation, accompanied by the rhythmic slapping of skin against skin.  
“Do you have any preferences?” The procuress asked as she paused in front of a door, turning to him. She had piercing eyes and it made him uncomfortable.  
“Only no one with blue eyes.” The words were out before he had given himself much time to think about it. “And preferably no one who’s revolted to touch my kind.”  
“Of course.” She vanished down the hall.

The room was more a chamber, really, and for the most part only housed a bed. A few candles were already burning and giving the room a dimly-lit atmosphere. He might have a better sight than the average human being, but still the alcohol made his vision hazy.  
Geralt sat down by the foot of the bed and unbuckled the leather straps that held the scabbard and his sword on his back, before he continued to loosen the clasps of his armour. The many leather pieces landed on the uneven wooden floor with a series of dull thuds.

It didn’t take long, until there was a knock on the door and a blonde woman slipped into his room. She was pretty, dark eyes eyeing him up before she gave him a seductive smile and came to nearer. Looking from a human point of view it might be convincing, but his Witcher senses still picked up a hint of fear under a thick cloud of perfume. Not a surprise really, they either smelled of fear or nursed a kind of kink and got a kick of excitement out of it.  
“I don’t want to talk.”  
“As you wish.” She helped him ran her palms over his shoulders and down his arms. Geralt unclasped the last pieces of armour and slipped off his shirt and trousers. Careful fingers were following the scars on this body, before he pulled her into his lap.

It was all wrong. The soft body sliding against his, the soft moans that were brushing against his temple, the long hair brushing his chest now and then. She looked at him with half closed eyes, her head fallen back. Brown eyes, without a hint of cornflower blue in sight. It was what he had wanted, wasn’t it?  
He closed his eyes and buried the face against her neck and inhaling the scent. It was something flowery, mixed with sweat and arousal, but it wasn’t chamomile, nor the smell of fancy perfumes or the smoky scent of a bonfire that clung to one’s hair even days later.  
Guilt, anger and pain were pulsating in his chest with spears of pain and fire. He growled, before speeding his rhythm up, soft, slender legs wrapping around his hips.  
This was what he had asked for. It was not what he wanted, while on the other hand it was everything that he wanted, but maybe he deserved this.  
Geralt sped up his pace, coming with a hoarse grunt. She clenched around his cock, riding the orgasm out. He took his hands off her hips and let her roll off him and to the other half of the bed. There was only the noise of their heavy breathing for a long time.

He stared up at the wooden ceiling. The metal of the medallion stuck to his chest by sweat and heat. Somehow he had hoped the sated feeling of post-orgasmic bliss would knock him out long enough not stop him from thinking, and yet he felt these uncomfortable, restricting emotions coming back to him. Mainly it was guilt that felt as if an enormous fist was crushing his lungs and stomach with a merciless force.  
He needed to apologize. There were rumours that witchers didn’t feel emotions as intense as humans do or didn’t even possess the human range of emotions at all. They weren’t more than that – rumours. He might not carry his heart on his sleeve and was of the overly expressive kind, but the witcher training hadn’t burned out all the emotions out of him. It had mostly been the prejudice against his kind, a tool to make people fear him. It wasn’t true, otherwise he wouldn’t feel the pain or regret in his chest.

***

Specks of sunlight fell through the gaps in the canopy of leaves of the surrounding trees. Roach trotted at a leisurely pace along the uneven path. He had left the brothel early before picking up Roach and leaving the town. It was nearly midday by now. There were various flowers blooming along the path. A few them looked achingly familiar. He saw the yellow buds of buttercups and dandelions, a few white, fluffy dandelion seeds and a few purplish-blue delphiniums in between.

In front of his inner eye, he saw himself sitting by a bonfire. Two hares had been slowly cooking over the fire, grey smoking curling into the night sky. Roach had snorted softly as she was feeding grass just a few steps away from him. Jaskier would be singing, soft, clever fingers dancing over the strings of his lute, while he would have one of his swords in his lap. Golden firelight reflected in the silver blade.  
There had been the occasional “Geralt, what do you think of this passage?” and he would just give a low hum in response, absorbed in the cosiness of it all and that he would never allow himself otherwise. The feeling might have been mutual because the bard had worn a soft smile on his face that had done awful things to Geralt’s guts.  
Jaskier had worn a flower crown made from buttercups and dandelions which he had collected and braided before putting it on his own head - no delphiniums because “They might look pretty but they are actually poisonous, bard. Don’t touch them.”

He had been unfair to Jaskier that day on the mountain, he realized that now. It had been too much at the time and he had used the bard as an outlet for his anger. The worse part of it was that Jaskier hadn’t gotten angry at him. He could have handled anger. Better anyways than this heartbroken look that had flashed over the bard’s face, before the emotion had been buried under a layer of nonchalance.  
“Right, yes. I’ll see you around, Geralt.” He had given him half a wave before turning and making his way downhill. When he had made his way back to Roach again, the things Jaskier had stored in Roach’s saddleback and the lute had been long gone, along with its owner.  
The memory of it hadn’t left him during his travels, even after all those months. Witchers weren’t supposed to feel anything and yet his stomach had felt like it was in knots. 

He should have gone back to and claim his Child Surprise but while it might have distracted him from his mood – his brooding, as a helpful voice in the back of his head supplied which sounded all to familiar -, he hadn’t really felt ready to care for a child. He had waited years to claim it, a bit more time might not matter much. He had to fix something else first.

***

Another night, another tavern. He had already spent the money of the previous hunt on ale and room. The barmaid still hovered next to him.  
“What is it?”  
“Aren’t you that Witcher the bard sang about?” His reputation had gotten better thanks to the Jaskier’s songs, earning him a title that was more often “the bard’s Witcher” than the infamous “Butcher of Blaviken” which was progress - of a sort. People didn’t throw stones after him anymore.  
Geralt froze. “What did he look like?”, the question slipped past his lips before he could restrain himself. He shouldn’t get his hopes up, really. There were other bards copying Jaskier’s works. Yesterday had been a flaming example of that and how awful that performance had been.  
“Fancy clothing, a bit of the extravagant kind. He had a lute with a handful of unusual markings, elven probably. We don’t get these kind of customers often around here. He sang all the songs of the White Wolf.” Her cheeks flushed at a memory. “And this one new heartbreaking song about a lost love and a woman how destroyed it all. It was a very emotional performance.” The last bit wasn’t really anything new, was it? Jaskier always had a lost love somewhere, always a woman he was mourning, before finding a new one. It looked like they had somehow just both fallen back to old habits. Geralt slaying monsters, Jaskier singing his praises and rolling through various beds. He ignored the ache in his chest.  
“How long ago has he been here?”  
“A few days, maybe?”  
He grunted. When Jaskier had been here recently, he must have gotten closer to finding him. There was his chance. Jaskier was so close. He heard the blood rushing in his ears and his adrenaline rising.  
Geralt pulled out a coin of his money pouch and pressed a coin into the girl’s hands. “Thank you.”  
Flushing the girl took the extra coin and scattered off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> day 3 - protection (and monster hunt)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it's already the 16th of February here, I think I can post this already.

Geralt was standing here on the threshold of a tavern far away from any noteworthy civilisation. The words Borch had said to him back at the mountain echoed through his head again. “You cannot run from destiny.”  
From the two people he had pushed away that day, one was right here; standing with his back to him, deft fingers dancing over the string of his lute. Jaskier. Out of all the places in the world they could have chosen, they had both ended up in the same tavern in the middle of fucking nowhere.  
The bard was performing the story about a basilisk he’d gotten rid of a few weeks ago. The silver threads in the bard’s blue doublet gleamed in the dim candle light. 

In that moment Jaskier turned, looked briefly in his direction. He seemed to freeze, stopped mid-sentence, while his drunken audience continued the song for him. Geralt could smell the bard’s conflicted feeling all the way over to him. But then he could see a smile forming on his lips before the bard shifted his attention back to his audience, his voice and movements becoming just a bit more energetic, as he swirled through the taproom. 

Jaskier had said they would see each other again – and it looked like the time had come now. He might not be particular good with emotions, but he’d rather face a djinn or any other of the monsters he had slayed altogether than facing what was inevitably about to come. 

Well, there’s barely anything to do now. Roach needed a rest and he was – at the very least now - in a desperate need for a drink. Keeping his hood up, he made his way over to the bar.  
The bartender, a grey-haired man with dark eyes, cast him a look, when he took an empty seat. The man’s face remained carefully impassive when his eyes lingered for a moment on the wolf medallion glinting around his neck.  
Geralt fished for his pouch, picked out a coin and slid it over the uneven, stained wood toward the barkeep. “Get me some ale.”  
The man turned, taking a dusty bottle from the shelf behind him and filled the dark golden liquid into an empty mug. Wordlessly he put it down in front of Geralt, before retrieving the coin.  
He took a sip, doing his best to block out the noise. He felt like getting a headache. He would ignore Jaskier, it wasn’t as if he didn’t have enough practice ignoring his singing. 

The music behind him had stopped, he suddenly realized, halfway through a couple mugs later. He heard the cheers and Jaskier’s voice as he thanked his audience. The metallic sound of flipped coins was nearly muffled by the praise and drunken chatter.

The barkeep was looking over his shoulder, a dark expression on his face. “I don’t like the bard flirting with her. Can’t you do something about him?”  
He didn’t bother to turn around. “Your daughter?”  
The man gave an assenting grunt. “Don’t like his kind. Making pretty eyes at her and then leavin’ them behind with a child.”  
“Hm.” Geralt had a good guess of what he would be seeing. His vision was a bit fuzzy at the edges, when he turned but he did see the girl and Jaskier was leaning against a pole next to her, his back to him. She was pretty with her blond curls playing around the neckline of her dress. The bard was twirling one of her locks between his fingers, as he leaned toward the girl’s ear. He must have whispered some kind of sweet filth to her because the girl’s cheeks blushed in all shades of red.  
A flare of rage ripped its fiery claws in Geralt’s chest and he turned his head back, facing the barkeep again.  
“He’s a fool, not a monster. I only take care of monsters.”  
“I’m not sayin’ you have t’kill him. Just scare him a little. I would pay you…” How did he always get dragged into these kinds of mess? Just because the fool couldn’t keep it in his pants.  
“No, and that’s my last word on it”, Geralt repeated with more emphasis this time. He shook his empty mug. “Get me another.”  
The barkeep didn’t look particularly happy but did give him the refilled mug back.

“You’re a Witcher!”, a voice next to him exclaimed and Geralt flinched at the booming voice. “That’s good, very good indeed. We don’t get many of your kind here nowadays.” The man took a seat at the empty chair next to him. He might have been in his late forties, with the first white hairs growing in the black beard and hair.  
“Hm.”  
“Well, we have a bit of a monster problem outside of town. We are a bit secluded out here and the closest we’ve come to a witcher here, is the bard’s songs about the adventures of Geralt of Rivia. Are you both acquainted?”  
Geralt huffed softly. “Vagely. I have heard the stories, obviously.”  
“Well, what a pleasant surprise to have you here.” What a surprise, indeed.  
“What kind of problem is it?”  
“It’s a kikimora.” Of course, it was a kikimora. There were way too many of their kind, he had had to fight in the past. Somehow it felt whenever Destiny ran out of ideas to keep him occupied, it put kikimoras in his way. Or bards. Or Child Surprises. Well, this would help to distract him at least.  
“Fine. I’ll pick up my payment once the job is done.”  
Geralt looked to the barkeep again. He saw his eyes traveling through the room, probably trained on his daughter and her lover. “You got a room to rent for the night? And some food for my horse?”

***

When he emerged out of the pub the next day, it was already late noon. Heavy grey clouds hung on the sky, blocking the sun out. Roach wasn’t alone when he entered the stable. A certain brown haired bard was standing next to his horse, flattering her with soft words and scratching her behind the ears.  
He moved closer. “Jaskier.”  
The bard turned his head and Geralt saw his whole face lighting up. “Geralt! How good to see you!”  
Jaskier wore the same outfit as the previous night, he noted. Tho’ his doublet was unbuttoned, showing an embroidered chemise beneath. There was a fresh, yellowish bruise on his neck.  
Well, if they hadn’t been both fucked now – in entirely different meanings of the words.

“I had to hear from Yasamine that you took a contract. How rude of you not to stop by.”  
Geralt didn’t bother to ask who this woman was. He could make a guess, not that it would make a difference. His anger was back all the same.  
“You were occupied …elsewhere”, he grumbled.  
“Ah, right. So, where are we going? I’ve heard something about a monster here somewhere.” Trying to get back to how things had been before the mountain then, it seemed.  
„I‘m not gonna take you with me, bard. And that’s not up for discussion.” Geralt made an attempt to grab Roach’s reins. “It‘s a damn kikimora, Jas!“  
Jaskier shifted the strap of his lute up his shoulder before crossing his arms over his chest, mirroring Geralt’s own posture. Displeasure and hurt was written all over his face.  
„So? It’s not the first one, you‘ve fought. Take me with you! How am I supposed to compose a suitable ballad on your heroics when you don’t let me come along?“  
“You normally also glorify them-”  
A surprised, but definitely pleased smile spread over Jaskier’s lips. “Oh, no fillingless pies then?”  
“-so, there’s no reason you can’t do it again”, Geralt continued, ignoring the interjection. “I don’t have the need to babysit you.“  
Jaskier spluttered, putting his hands on his hips in indignation. „I’m very capable of defending myself. Thanks ever so.”  
Geralt pinched his nose and sighed. And yet he tumbled into trouble like a lost puppy ever time. “Like the one time where I saved you from the werewolf? Or the djinn?”  
The bard shifted his weight and lifted his chin a fraction. “Well. Well, that was only ...once...right? You can’t judge that from one unsuccessful mission.”  
“Or all the times when you sleep with the wrong woman of some lord and you need me for backup. The father of your girl from last night wasn’t very pleased about it.”  
“Not fair. And there aren’t all women, so no need to generalize. I can defend myself, if need be or I make my escapes fast enough, whatever comes first. Also, if you took me with you, you wouldn’t have to worry of me accidentally fathering a child while you’re gone.” There was a small, smug smile on Jaskier’s lips now. Correction: he was a lost and horny puppy. 

Geralt took a deep breath and tried it with a new approach and a gentler tone. „Just stay here, you can secure us a room for when I‘m back.“ He hesitated a moment before adding. „Since Yenn is Melitele knows where, I‘d prefer having you in one piece.“ I don’t wanna get you hurt, Jas.  
There was a complicated expression on the bard‘s features that Geralt wasn’t quite sure how to interprete, but in the end it definitely leaned towards a satisfied smile. „Oh, I didn’t know you cared. But I’m flattered, you‘re making an effort.”  
Geralt winced slightly at the implication. “I’m just not in the mood for your whining”, he attempted, but Jaskier smiled unconcerned.  
“Whatever you say. Altho’ you definitely do not make my job any easier, my friend! Especially since you’re so sparse with the details.”  
He called over his shoulder before going back into the tavern. “I’ll secure you a bath for when you’re back.”

Geralt sighed and turned to Roach. She snorted before nudging her head against his shoulder.  
“Yes, I know.” Jaskier seemed to be the same he always had been, as infuriating as he always was.  
He mounted the saddle and pick up the reins. “Come on, we got a monster to hunt.”

\-----

The kikimora loomed over him, spindly arms raised and ready to strike. Oh, Melitele may damn him!  
With a hiss Geralt retreated, the mud on his boots slowing his movements. He wasn‘t at his best tonight, he knew.  
He ducked under a razor-sharp fang that was aimed at his neck, spinned out of its path - and blocked another arm coming for him with his sword. The blade sliced right through and the disembodied limb landed with a splash in the mud. It screamed, its fangs seemed to be attacking him more fiercly.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a fleck of colour that definitely didn’t belong there. One fang slipped through his defense. Sharp claws cut through his skin, burning from the poison and ripped his sword out of his hand. He had to make sure this never got back to Vesemir. Struck like a bloody novice. 

Geralt hissed and retreated. The beast did’t follow him, as he backed away to the side of the muddy pond. Only then with a bit of distance between them, he dared to look down for a split second. The fang had ripped open his armour and had sliced through his skin in a couple of cuts. He needed to get back to Roach, getting the antidote to the poison spreading through his body.

„Geralt!“ He forced himself to look up and groaned. He had told Jaskier to stay behind. Why was this stupid fool here?  
He didn’t fit in here with his expensive clothes and unarmed at that.  
„Fucking hell, Jaskier. What are you doing here?“ The poison was numbing his feeling for his left side.  
„Well, assisting you as it seems. I couldn’t let you enjoy all the fun alone, now can I?“ Jaskier came closer to the muddy pond, his eyes not leaving the kikimora. „Where is your sword?“  
“Sweet Melitele, get out of there, Jaskier!”  
“Where is the damned sword, Geralt?!”  
“Somewhere to your right.” Jaskier bowed and retrieved the silver blade. Geralt could see him searching for a solid standing, his body shifting between him and the kikimora.

The kikimora stormed forward. One of the fangs nearly missed him and Jaskier took a few steps sideways to re-catch his balance and lifting the blade. “Oh what a gruesome, ugly thing you are. I don’t like it when you hurt my friends, see?”  
Geralt stares at him in disbelief and awe, as Jaskier sidestepped one strike after another. He was better than Geralt would have suspected, he had to admit. His heart was beating faster in his chest, only partly from the adrenaline of the fight. His chest felt strangely warm and full right now.  
Another arm fell into the mud. He did well, for someone who hadn’t wealded a weapon in such a long time, exceptionally well.  
In one risky movement Jaskier jumped forward, the blade raised. The massive head of the creature slid right off its neck and landed with a loud splash in the dirty water, drenching the bard in the progress.  
“Now you ruined my silk jacket. I don’t think you have any sense how much it was worth? I had it imported, not that you would know anything about the value of the finest silk imported from-“  
“You never told me, you could fight.”  
Jaskier turned. Blood and mud speckled the once blue cloth, his hair had gotten mussed in the fight, next to the dead creature.  
“Just because I normally try to avoid it, doesn’t mean, I couldn’t. Sword fighting was part of my training, before university. But I have never really taken a liking to it, but I could - in theory. Well, in practice as well, as it seems.” He nodded towards the chopped off head. “Tho’ I wouldn’t make it a habit, if I can help it.” He grimaced. “I never liked fighting.”  
Geralt scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.” Jaskier shot him his brightest smile, before letting the blade fall next to Geralt on the mossy, muddy ground.  
“Wait here for me. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone. I’m just gonna get Roach.”  
Geralt nodded, watching his retreating silhouette still a bit dumbstrucked in disbelief.

It didn’t take long, until Jaskier was back, the horse at his side. Geralt noticed the neck of the neck of the bard’s lute looming over the saddle. Roach snorted and lowered her head, her warm nuzzle knocking into Geralt’s cheek.  
“I’m fine, Roach.” He patted her neck in reassurance.  
Jaskier rounded the horse and stood in front of him and held out a hand. “Come on!” Geralt let him help himself up, grunting as his wounds ached at his side.  
“There’s a potion in the saddle bags. Against the poison.”  
Jaskier furrowed his brow before rummaging around, pulling various vials out. “That one.” Geralt interjected, when he recognised the white-ish liquid in one of the vials and reached out. The bard uncorked it before giving it over. He took a swig of it, swallowed, before handing the half-full vial back.  
“Your eyes are back to normal.” Jaskier remarked, resting a warm palm on Geralt’s cheek.  
“Come on, let’s get back.” He helped him up his horse before mounting the saddle behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

Night had fallen when they made it back to the village. Roach snorted, a white cloud of breath escaping from her nostrils. The wound throbbed with every heartbeat against his arm that he kept pressed against the claw marks. The sign of the tavern squealed in a light breeze on its hinges. Geralt slipped from Roach’s back, supressing a sharp hiss at a wrong movement. He caught Jaskier’s watchful glance and a slight worry that was written all over his face. He looked away.  
The bard took over the reins, led the horse to a free post in the stable, slinging them around the pole. He mumbled a few words of comfort to her, before clapping her on the neck, loosening her saddle and taking the saddle bags off. He would need a few of the potions he kept in there, after arranging a bath for himself.

The noise of a pub full of drunkards wrapped around him, when they entered. The smell of sweat, alcohol and unwashed skin lingered in the air and it let him grimace. Geralt let his gaze travel over the shadowed faces in the crowd. A few tables over he met the gaze of the man who had originally hired him.   
“It looks like you have been successful, witcher“, the man noted, looking at him with an expression of barely hidden disgust in his face and a slight uneasiness colouring his voice; But that could have to do with the smell and blood drying on his skin.   
“It is dead.” He would have to go back tomorrow and see if he couldn’t make its corpse to money. Given, of course, there was someone living around here who would take it off his hands.

The man detached a coin pouch from his belt and threw it on the table before him. Coins were jingling against each other. “There you go. I think I speak in the name of the town when I say I‘m glad the monster is dead.“   
Geralt nodded at him curtly before reaching out. He felt the other men at the table tense as he picked up the bag. 

“I have already ordered you a bath”, Jaskier appeared next to him. He let his gaze drift over Geralt’s form and adjusting the strap of his lute over his shoulder he had untied from Roach’s saddle.  
“Come on, off we go! I got us a room and a tub upstairs.” Without waiting Jaskier made his way through the crowd and up the hidden stairs in the back of the taproom. Geralt took the last sip from his mug before following.

The room Jaskier led him to wasn’t particular big – and must have been the bard’s own, given the exorbitant, shimmery clothes that were hanging on a hook in the wall. It barely contained more than a single bed, and a hearth with wooden tub waiting in front of it. A few candles were propped upon the mantelpiece that Jaskier immediately took care to lit. The whole room smelled subtly of the bard’s perfumed oils, warm and a bit citrusy.

Geralt let the saddle bags drop at the foot of the bed. He started to untie his armour piece by piece, a muscle twitching when he loosened the torn leather plate, where the kikimora had struck him.  
Jaskier took off his ruined doublet with a grimace and rolled up the sleeves of his chemise. Except of a few splatters of blood it had stayed unaffected from the fight. He noticed the bard’s eyes traveling over his body, lingering in places, before fixating on the red wounds on his side. “Come on, strip and let me see.”   
“Just a scratch.”  
“And you are the same disarmed witcher I just finished your monster for because of a wound on your side that needs treatment? Honestly! I had come later, you could have, I don’t know, bleed to death.“   
Geralt rolled his eyes. “Don’t be dramatic. It isn’t that bad.” It wasn’t news exactly that witcher heart’s beat slower, so he wouldn’t inconveniently bleed to death. And they weren’t that easily killed either, if they kept in motion.  
“Right. Of course”, Jaskier scoffed and shaking his head in indignation, a small crease forming between pinched eyebrows, before helping him out of the remaining pieces of clothing.

With a sigh Geralt took a seat on the bed and leaned back. His weight resting on his left arm, to present the mark. After taking a critical look at it, Jaskier reached into his saddle bags and pulled out a flask and two pieces of cloth. As he unscrewed it, Geralt caught a familiar scent. It was sweet and familiar and it made his heart ache with need.  
“Chamomile?” It must have been one of Jaskier’s tinctures then, none of his own smelled like flowers.  
“It brings back memories, does it not?” Lips twitched in amusement, as he poured a bit of the yellowish liquid on a piece of cloth. “Really, what would you do without me?” Jaskier looked at him sternly through dark lashes, while he carefully started to dab at the wound.  
“Hm. Probably swallowed one of my healing po-“   
Jaskier whacked his arm. “You are the one who told me to stay behind, safe and sound like a helpless damsel, and on the other hand, you are not very keen on taking care of your own advice. Had I not followed you, you’d be still laying in the mud back there, probably dead.“   
„Part of the occupational hazard.”  
Jaskier snorted. “I, for my part, can say, that you’re damn lucky, I followed your reckless ass. Don’t get me wrong it’s a pretty ass in these leather pants of yours but your decision making sucks sometimes, my friend.”   
That got a small smile out of him. “You can write a ballad about it, if that gets you to be quiet right now.”  
“Oh, don’t worry, I definitely will. And you don’t want me quiet, trust me.”   
Jaskier took a long, folded piece of cloth out of a bag. He began to wrap it around his torso, fingers occasionally brushing Geralt’s skin, before knotting the ends together.   
Jaskier leaned back, before nodding, satisfied with his work. He stood, made his way over to the tub and ran his hand through the water.   
“Hm, it’s not hot anymore.“ He reached to the bucket standing next to the tub and filled it water before moving over to the hearth to warm it up a bit.  
“Leave it. It’s fine.” Geralt climbed into the wooden tub. The water was luke warm, but after a few cold dips in various ponds in the last time, this was perfectly comfortable.

He could hear the bard settling down behind him. With a splash Jaskier emptied the bucket over his head. Geralt grunted as the mixture of re-liquified kikimora blood and water washed over his face and he ran a hand over his eyes and nose, in an attempt to scrub the remains off his face.  
„Now, let‘s get started, shall we?” A breath of air later felt the bard’s hands in his hair.  
“I can do this on my own”, Geralt protested.  
Jaskier huffed. “I don’t think so. Have you seen the state your hair is in? I should have some soap in my bags.”  
He heard the bard rummaging around but didn’t bother to turn. It’s not a surprise really, Jaskier had always way too many of these fancy little oils and flasks with him that Geralt himself considered unnecessary.   
He heard a bottle getting uncorked and then the hands were back, gently working through the knots and tangles in his hair. Fingernails lightly scratched over his scalp, massaging his head. Geralt closed his eyes and let out a low “Hm.”  
He listened as Jaskier started to hum a melody, as the clever fingers started massaging his scalp. It was relaxing, his body was softening under Jaskier’s fingers. It was an odd sensation letting himself be vulnerable and to put - quite literally - his life into someone else’s hands. There was a tingling that started on his head, before spreading throughout his whole body.  
It wasn’t been the first time he let Jaskier take care of his hair. He had occasionally given in, when he couldn’t bear his whining anymore, about the awful state his hair was in. He had found that there was some comfort to it – not that he had ever told Jaskier that.

The hands retracted slowly from his hair and Geralt let out a soft sound of protest.   
“Scoot a bit forward, so I can wash the soap out, would you?” There was a hint of amusement in his voice as his warm breath hit his ear.  
Geralt complied, lifting his legs over the brim of the tub. He flinched slightly as the change in position made his wounds hurt. 

Jaskier leaned over him, his hair falling in his face. He had taken his the sleeves of his soft fabric rolled up to his elbows, the bucket in his hands. His hands were again threading and combing through the light strands, washing the soup out. Geralt closed his eyes again.  
“Have you fallen asleep?” There was a slight indignation in Jaskier’s voice, tho’ Geralt heard an amused undertone beneath. “I can’t say I’m getting used to people falling asleep in my company. I’ve not received any complaints.“ He added with a sly wink.  
“Jaskier…”  
“Fine. Here.” He pushed a bar of soap into Geralt’s hands. “Finish up! I’ll go downstairs and see if I can find something to eat for us. And then it’s my turn, be sure to be finished by then.” 

*

Geralt had tried to rub his hair dry and it now hung in damp waves over his shoulders. On his trip downstairs Jaskier had not only organised them some food, but had also cancelled Geralt’s room, since “Why waste money on a separate room, when there’s enough room for both of us here?” He hadn’t even commented on it. They had shared beds in the past.

He watched as Jaskier slipped a fresh chemise and pants on before making his way over to the bed. His skin was slightly pink from scrubbing and a few dark curls were visible through the not laced collar as Jaskier slipped under the covers.  
“Oh, I do like it when the covers are already warm when I come to bed”, he sighed in contempt, as he curled up next to Geralt.  
“Hm. Do you tell this to your women as well?”  
“Why? Don’t tell mem you’re jealous?” Jaskier shot him a teasing smile.  
Geralt snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself.”  
“Oh, you are, aren’t you? Don’t worry, you’re the only Witcher in my life - and my longest friend.” He reached over and patted Geralt’s arm.  
Probably because everyone else wants to strangle you after a few minutes.  
“Rude!” Looked like, he had said that out loud.

They were laying there, only a hair’s breadth apart. The bed had turned out to be narrower than it had originally looked. He could feel Jaskier’s warmth radiating trough his thin undershirt. Something seemed to shift in the atmosphere of the room. Geralt could feel the tension prickling in the air, making his fingers twitch with the urge to do something.

“Jas, I”, he broke off again. Jaskier turned his head, silent for once. Without the potions Geralt more or less had to guess his facial expression in the dark, even tho’ they lay practically face to face. He took a deep breath. Some things were easier said in the dark, right?  
“It wasn’t fair. What I said at the mountain.”  
“Hm.”

They were silent for a moment that made him uneasy. Just when he thought, he couldn’t take it anymore, Jaskier closed the gap between them. His warm body pressed up against his side. Geralt moved his arm out the way to get into a more comfortable position. Jaskier seemed to take it as an invitation to rest his head on Geralt’s shoulder. Not quite knowing what else to do with his arm, he wrapped it around the bard’s shoulders. 

Soft strands of brown hair brushed his chin and he took in the scent of bergamot and chamomile. The silky texture of the chemise was brushing against his skin and warm breath was ghosting over Geralt’s chest. He could feel an emotion radiating off him in waves, something strong and warm that seemed to wrap around him, bathing him in... something he didn’t dare to name.   
It felt like the times they had spent travelling together. Of all those nights when they had sat together by the fire, the subtile glances Jaskier had shot him occasionally; like the gentle touches when Jaskier took care of his hair; The easy carelessness when sharing a meal or a bed together.  
“It wasn’t fair, no. Your words did hurt, you know. But …I think I could forgive you. Eventually.”  
Geralt hummed, letting his cheek against the top of Jaskier’s head and tucking him just a bit closer.  
“What do you think about a trip to the coast?”  
An amused snort brushed over his skin. “Alright, you big, stupid oaf.” Slightly rough fingertips ran over his side, leaving a burning trail.

For the first time in a while this here felt right. It felt like everything has been fallen back in place again, most things anyway. Having Jaskier by his side again, ready to travel with him in spite of his outburst. Jaskier could annoy the hell out of him and was like having a constant pebble in your boot, but with Roach he still was a kind of constant.  
Geralt felt his heart echoing Jaskier’s heartbeat that was drumming against his ribcage. Drinking up the deep connection they shared, the…love.  
It was a different kind of love than the one he had shared with Yennefer. It had involved a lot of mutual attraction, mostly towards the other’s power. This one was different. This one was filled with annoyance and being able to drive each other up the wall, while on the other hand being quite caring. They had shared a lot of things – food, clothes, beds, coin, years of companionship. They have been tied together by Destiny, never able to loose one another once and for all.   
He didn’t deserve him. The fool fell easily in love but there was a bond between them that ran much deeper. 

He wouldn’t waste this second chance.


End file.
